Chapter 2
Tom
Tom groaned as he took in the latest additions to the living room.
Some over-produced Christmas pop-song was playing from the speaker. Glitter from Lauren’s latest “art work” dusted the coffee table, the floor, probably his work pants if he so much as breathed too close.
He hung his jacket on the hook that was, inexplicably, decorated with a miniature wreath. At this point, he considered himself lucky she hadn’t tried to hang one on his cock.
Lauren had outdone herself this year—which was saying something. Her enthusiasm for Christmas was full-blown mania.
It made him cringe.
“Did you notice the cushions?” Lauren seemed oddly breathless as she moved across the room to plump one.
Tom managed a neutral noise. She set the cushion just so, as if it mattered in this over-stuffed room, and he stepped forward, catching her hands before she could adjust anything else.
Her fingers were tacky with dried craft glue. Her wedding band at least felt smooth and solid against his skin, and he tried to concentrate on that.
His wife—his soft, cozy, Christmas-sweater wearing wife—looked up at him, cheeks flushed, hair escaping her bun to frame her face.
She was his favorite person. If only she’d stop drowning herself—and him—in tinsel.
“You don’t need to go to all this effort,” he said, giving her hands a squeeze. “Christmas is just one day.”
She squeezed back as she gazed up at him. There was a dreamy softness to her expression. “That’s why it’s so special.”
She lifted up on tip-toes and pressed a kiss to his lips—warm, promising—and then she was gone again, fussing with some grotesque Santa figurine on the side table.
Tom exhaled, stretching the tension from his shoulders.
Christmas should be simple. Understated. One small tree, a decent meal, a few appropriate gifts from the mall. That was all it needed to be.
He groaned at the reminder. The mall.
Crowds packed shoulder to shoulder under tinny carols, kids screaming, shoppers jostling past with armfuls of junk no one really wanted. Perfume in the air thick enough to choke on.
A last-minute scramble for a pointless gift—same as every year.
He glanced toward his wife. Lauren was humming to herself, the lights catching gold in her hair.
He wished they were going to his parents’ place for Christmas—it would have been easier that way.
Having them come here was always embarrassing.
Lauren never seemed to notice what they thought of her DIY crafts.
Not that he blamed them. Their house was a joke.
The tacky wreaths, the glitter, the homemade ornaments—it was all way too much.
If only Lauren would give this Christmas bullshit a rest.